Dear Ma
Dear Ma,
I am living in Chelsea, NY's gay neighborhood, until Dec. 7. My roommate, Marc, is gay, very nice, and a scholar of Caribbean literature. Last night he tried to get me to watch Brokeback Mountain.
The spaces in Manhattan are so tiny, it's like living on a boat. I'm banging my body on things all the time. I do not fit into this borough.
The guy whose room I'm staying in gave me the place on a handshake. I paid him later with $500 on Paypal for the 3-week sublet. He's a Texan world traveler. We swapped trekking stories and he showed me pictures from Kilimanjaro. He seemed totally straight, using words like "man" and perhaps "dude," I can't remember. I just came across some large leopard-skin pumps on his bookshelf.
People ask me why I find New York so distracting. I was just on my way to my office (the New York Public Library), head down, focused on my work, when a laughing sound caught my attention. It was an African named Jerry wearing posterboards advertising eyebrow threading. He was running up to people and playing air guitar and singing and laughing and looked as if he'd won life's lottery. He reminded me of my friend Drissa in Burkina Faso who said he would walk to America and if he ever made it he would take any kind of work, even washing cadavers.
One block later was a blind man being led across the street. His jacket said Blind Bowlers of America. I couldn't get this out of my head, how it works. Suddenly any ideas for work that I had that did not involve making a documentary about this blind bowlers' league seemed inconsequential.
There's a woman in Colorado being made to take down her peace-shaped wreath because other residents in the housing association feel it's an anti-war statement and others suspect it's a satanic symbol. It's the kind of stories Europeans will recount for years in cafes because it makes them feel more civilized than we are, as if they needed confirmation.
Are people excited or nervous about the Dec. 3 election in Venezuela? I had a psychic dream last night in which I was telling you of my travels, but you had no time. I couldn't believe I was still in my tiny childhood room with the red and blue crosshatch rug. You did ask me if the room I was staying in on my travels was lit by a single light bulb. I said yes. Just now I saw a story about a room lit by a single light bulb. It was in a neighborhood in Caracas in which there were 38 murders during a stretch of 24 hours.
Peace,
Sonny
I am living in Chelsea, NY's gay neighborhood, until Dec. 7. My roommate, Marc, is gay, very nice, and a scholar of Caribbean literature. Last night he tried to get me to watch Brokeback Mountain.
The spaces in Manhattan are so tiny, it's like living on a boat. I'm banging my body on things all the time. I do not fit into this borough.
The guy whose room I'm staying in gave me the place on a handshake. I paid him later with $500 on Paypal for the 3-week sublet. He's a Texan world traveler. We swapped trekking stories and he showed me pictures from Kilimanjaro. He seemed totally straight, using words like "man" and perhaps "dude," I can't remember. I just came across some large leopard-skin pumps on his bookshelf.
People ask me why I find New York so distracting. I was just on my way to my office (the New York Public Library), head down, focused on my work, when a laughing sound caught my attention. It was an African named Jerry wearing posterboards advertising eyebrow threading. He was running up to people and playing air guitar and singing and laughing and looked as if he'd won life's lottery. He reminded me of my friend Drissa in Burkina Faso who said he would walk to America and if he ever made it he would take any kind of work, even washing cadavers.
One block later was a blind man being led across the street. His jacket said Blind Bowlers of America. I couldn't get this out of my head, how it works. Suddenly any ideas for work that I had that did not involve making a documentary about this blind bowlers' league seemed inconsequential.
There's a woman in Colorado being made to take down her peace-shaped wreath because other residents in the housing association feel it's an anti-war statement and others suspect it's a satanic symbol. It's the kind of stories Europeans will recount for years in cafes because it makes them feel more civilized than we are, as if they needed confirmation.
Are people excited or nervous about the Dec. 3 election in Venezuela? I had a psychic dream last night in which I was telling you of my travels, but you had no time. I couldn't believe I was still in my tiny childhood room with the red and blue crosshatch rug. You did ask me if the room I was staying in on my travels was lit by a single light bulb. I said yes. Just now I saw a story about a room lit by a single light bulb. It was in a neighborhood in Caracas in which there were 38 murders during a stretch of 24 hours.
Peace,
Sonny
posted by Thon at 11:32 AM
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